This had been more shocking than insulting. Obviously, it was impossible for the president, or her staff, to understand the seriousness of his request or the intelligence he had come to provide based upon the tepid language Jarral had used to cloak the request. But that shouldn’t have mattered. If the president was truly the mother of her people—as Tama’s political representatives embodied him as father—no request from any of her children should have been met with such dismissive disdain.
There was still so much about the Federation that eluded Sharak.
Even as the day was drawing to a close, there were still a number of people standing outside the main entrance to the Palais behind a low blockade. These were press representatives eager to engage the president and her staff. The moment any high-level official was seen, they were immediately bombarded with questions. Some paused for brief exchanges, while others hurried on their way. Sharak distinctly heard the term “Typhon Pact” thrown about liberally during these brief, vociferous discussions.
Consumed with these thoughts and overwhelmed by his ineffectualness where the need was so great, Sharak slowed his steps. He should go immediately to the nearby embassy. Ratham and Jarral would be anxious to learn the results of his efforts. He was in no hurry to disappoint them.
“Excuse me, Doctor Sharak, isn’t it?” a melodious male voice inquired.
Turning, Sharak beheld a Cardassian wearing a meticulously tailored suit in deep green and brown colorations. He smiled pleasantly at the doctor, and his eyes held Sharak’s intensely. Although Sharak had encountered few members of this species during his time in the Federation, he could not help but feel an immediate sense of trepidation. He understood the Federation’s long history with the Cardassians to have been somewhat fraught, and he was immediately on his guard.
Either the man was accustomed to this or keenly sensitive to it. His smile widened as he bowed his head, saying, “It is always an honor to meet a Child of Tama. I have had the pleasure of speaking several times with your Ambassador Jarral. I never fail to find those conversations enchanting.”
Sharak nodded warily.
“Forgive my presumption, but I was advised that you had become quite proficient with Federation Standard. If I was misinformed, permit me to begin again. Zima. At Anzo.”
“You were not misinformed, sir,” Sharak said quickly, though he was curious to know how much of his language this man might have troubled himself to learn.
“Garak,” the man said, clearly pleased. “I am Elim Garak, the Cardassian Ambassador to the United Federation of Planets.”
“I am Doctor Sharak,” the doctor replied as cordially as he could.
“Yes. Your reputation as a man of great ability and honor precedes you,” Garak said, inclining his head again.
“I apologize,” Sharak began. “I have never heard your name before.”
“There is no reason why you should have,” Garak assured him. “I was once but a simple tailor, exiled from my home. The challenges of the last several years have seen my star rise to unexpected heights. But like you, I fear not high enough to serve my people as well as I would wish.”
Sharak understood Garak’s words well enough, but could not help but sense that he was missing many deeper insinuations.
“I spent most of this day like you, my dear doctor: hoping to be granted a few minutes of President Bacco’s time.”
“I see.”
“As I’m sure you appreciate, the president is an extremely busy woman. I have not taken her lack of attention to heart and neither should you,” Garak continued. “But, in my admittedly limited experience, I have found that there are times when a direct assault cannot be expected to bring about the desired result. Like most who occupy positions of great import, President Bacco only has time to concern herself with issues that her staff perceives as priorities.”
“That appears to be true,” Sharak ventured, wondering why the Cardassian ambassador should trouble himself to spend any time at all speaking with him, let alone offering him advice. In fact, Sharak was unsure if this was Garak’s intention or simply the ambassador’s unusual means of passing the time.
“I understand you are a physician, but I wonder, have you any interest in gardening?”
“No,” Sharak replied, taken completely off guard by the abrupt change of subject.
“It is a passion of mine,” Garak said, his smile returning. “I first learned to love watching living things grow and bloom at my father’s knee.”
“I see,” Sharak said, although he didn’t really.
“Above all, it taught me patience. Seeds do not flower overnight. They require attention, fertile soil, water, light, shade, depending on their preferences. Above all, they must be planted in the right place. This is true of many things. Should you desire to gain the ear of President Bacco, may I suggest you consider utilizing the incredibly rich nutrients available here to plant your seeds?”
“I do not understand what you are suggesting, Mister Ambassador,” Sharak replied.
“Permit me,” Garak said. Stepping closer to a small circle of reporters busy comparing notes, and raising his voice to a surprising level, Garak continued, “I cannot help but see this gesture on the part of the Children of Tama as evidence of both your extreme generosity and resourcefulness. There are many so-called friends of the Federation who have yet to demonstrate the same level of compassion as your people. With so many displaced by the Borg Invasion, it might seem appropriate for those with resources to offer them willingly to those in need. However, too many have failed to answer this call. The Children of Tama,” he said with great emphasis, “are to be emulated. To have taken the most vulnerable among us, the children of alien species, into your care and to house them in your embassy is simply heartwarming. I, for one, am humbled in the face of such selflessness, and I truly hope that many others who currently enjoy the Federation’s protection will choose to follow the path your people have forged.”
Sharak’s eyes widened in alarm. The focus of every member of the press within earshot suddenly fell upon him. Within seconds, he and Garak were surrounded by the ravenous throngs, and small recording devices were pointed in his direction. An invisible signal seemed to move like wildfire among them, alerting them to the presence of fresh prey.
“Excuse us, ladies and gentlemen,” Garak said as soon as their attention was assured. “I fear I have embarrassed my Tamarian friend by the effulgence of my praise.” Taking Sharak firmly by the arm, Garak then directed him through the reporters and remained by his side as they crossed the street and headed briskly toward the Tamarian embassy.
The press followed at a reasonably respectful distance. Although Sharak had remained silent throughout this odd scene, Garak whispered conspiratorially, “No thanks are necessary, Doctor Sharak. We both represent nonaligned powers and, as such, have many common interests. I look forward to learning how they might intersect, and until then, I will do everything possible to further your goals, as well as Cardassia’s. I do hope we meet again, soon, Doctor.”
Sharak looked up and found that in their brief walk, they had reached the gates of the Tamarian embassy. Sharak hurried inside as the crowd that had followed him began to surround the building, peering through the fence and searching for any confirmation that Garak had spoken the truth.
• • • • •
Commander Paris’s report of his meeting with Admiral Montgomery had not surprised Seven. Every interaction she’d ever had, or heard of, with Admiral Montgomery had revealed the consistency of his character and its many weaknesses.
She and Paris had turned their attention to practical matters. They had successfully made contact with Gres and been assured that he and Naomi were well and would be on their way to Earth soon. Naomi was making the most of her first visit to Ktaria.
Without the data Seven required from Commander Briggs—about the earliest incarnations of the catomic virus—there was little she, Axum, and Riley could do to eliminate the wider thr
eat. Briggs had continued his experiments with the catoms extracted from the Arehaz refugees and much of Seven’s time, over the last day, had been devoted to helping them survive the initial experience and working in concert with Axum and Riley to neutralize the affected catoms as they had their own.
That she must return to Starfleet Medical was not in question. When and how remained unclear. Seven was turning the question over and over in her mind while sharing a light meal with Jilliant and her infant daughter when the serenity she had come to associate with the embassy was suddenly shattered. The sound of heavy footsteps overhead was mingled with distant shouts. Ratham hurried into the basement and communicated in short, desperate phrases that the embassy had come under attack.
Seven rushed upstairs past a flurry of individuals moving in brisk shock to fortify the embassy’s perimeter. A male Seven knew to be the chef and several domestic workers were being armed with small phasers and directed out the back of the embassy toward the garden along with the security detachment. Seven stopped at a small window to see the high iron fence surrounded by individuals peering through them and shouting questions at the Tamarians who emerged and took up silent posts at the gates.
She found Paris and his mother already in Ambassador Jarral’s office. They stood around Doctor Sharak, who was seated and visibly pale.
“What happened?” she asked as she entered.
“Lucsha. At Hion,” Jarral replied tersely.
Sharak turned to face Seven, despair writ clearly on his face. “I am so sorry, Miss Seven,” he said.
Seven took Paris’s arm and demanded, “Tell me.”
Paris sighed. “It appears we can all now add inciting a diplomatic incident to our résumés.”
“Tom, don’t be ridiculous,” his mother interjected. “This isn’t Doctor Sharak’s fault.”
Seven didn’t understand, but her frustration was such that had she still possessed assimilation tubules, she might have injected them into Paris’s neck at that moment to obtain the information she required.
“Doctor Sharak went to the Palais this morning to seek an appointment with President Bacco. He was rebuffed. When he left, he ran into the Ambassador to the Federation from Cardassia, Elim Garak,” Paris explained.
Seven was familiar with Garak. He had attended some of the high-level meetings at the Palais during the Borg Invasion. She had not formed an unfavorable opinion of him, but could not say she trusted him.
“Mister Garak alerted the press to the fact that the Tamarian embassy is currently housing refugees displaced by the Invasion,” Paris continued.
“How could he know that?” Seven demanded.
“I don’t know,” Paris replied.
“Ambassador Jarral,” Ratham said softly.
Turning, Seven saw her standing in the doorway to the ambassador’s office, her hands on the shoulders of a young boy clinging tightly to a stuffed snake. His eyes were wide with terror.
Julia Paris quickly moved to stand before the boy. Kneeling to meet him at eye level and placing her hands on his arms protectively, she said, “It’s all right, Shon. No one is angry with you. Please, don’t be afraid.”
Shon stared at her but gave no indication that he believed her.
“Come and sit with me,” Julia suggested tenderly. Moving to the floor and crossing her legs, she welcomed the boy into her lap and began to rock gently. After a few moments, he buried his head in her shoulder and began to sob. She shushed and hugged him, patting his back and assuring him over and over that all was well. Finally he looked up at her and said softly, “I wanted to run.”
“Of course you did,” Julia said. “Did you go outside?”
Shon nodded. “I waited until it was dark.”
“What a good boy,” Julia assured him. “When you were outside, did you see anyone?”
Shon nodded again. “A snake-man,” he whispered.
“That must have been very frightening,” Julia said. “But thank you for telling us. You are so brave.” With strength Seven would never have suspected existed in Julia’s tiny and aging frame, she took the boy’s weight in her arms and rose to her feet. “Let’s go find your mother, shall we?”
Ratham followed them out.
As soon as they had left, Jarral again turned on Sharak. “Kadir. Beneath Mometeh.”
“He is a child,” Sharak said. “He could not have known better. But you are right. I should have.”
The crowd outside the embassy must have been growing. Now shouts could be heard coming through the front windows.
“You will have to make a statement, Mister Ambassador,” Paris said, clearly trying to reason his way through this. “For now, you could simply confirm what Garak said. It’s actually the truth, though hardly all of it.”
“Kinla. At court,” Sharak translated for Jarral.
“Beeaze. Her staff broken.”
“The court full. The sun bright,” Sharak offered.
“It won’t take Briggs long to figure this out,” Seven warned Paris.
“Nor will it take long for the president to demand that the refugees be turned over to Federation custody,” Paris noted. “This is a nightmare.”
“Thomas Eugene Paris, I am extremely disappointed in you.”
Seven and Paris turned to see that Julia had returned. She stood still, framed in the arched doorway, her hands on her hips.
“That’s okay, Mom,” Paris said. “I am too.”
“How can you fail to see the opportunity this turn of events has created for us?” Julia demanded.
Paris looked to Seven, then back at Julia.
“Huh?”
“Elim Garak is many things, but he is not stupid. Why he would choose to aid us remains a mystery. He might simply have been seeking an opportunity to publicly embarrass the president, or his designs may be more complex, but either way, he has now made it impossible for President Bacco to avoid addressing this issue.”
“How do you know Garak, Mom?” Paris asked.
“Your father knew him,” Julia replied. “Mister Garak has been complicating the lives of Starfleet officers for years now. He’s infamous.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Paris, but how, exactly, does this help us?” Seven interrupted.
Julia moved to stand between Seven and her son. “For the next two days, the embassy will be bombarded with requests for information, from the press and from low-level Federation diplomats. Ambassador Jarral will say nothing. Not only will his silence further whet the appetites of the Federation New Service, the stories they will spin from whole cloth will transform this from a minor, curious nuisance, to a potential diplomatic disaster. The Federation needs all of the friends it can get right now. Bacco will never risk insulting the Tamarians. At any other time of the year, she might make a personal call on the ambassador to clear this up, but she won’t be able to do that before we make our move.”
“We?” Paris asked. “What move are we making?”
“What is the day after tomorrow, Tom?” Julia demanded.
“Friday?”
“April fifth,” Julia said with emphasis.
A light went on in Paris’s eyes.
“First Contact Day,” he realized.
“Oh,” Seven began.
Paris’s mind was already whirring. “The Palais will be open for the reception. Bacco will be there receiving all of the guests.”
“As will Admiral Akaar and the Vulcan ambassador,” Julia added.
“Are you still invited to those things?” Paris asked.
“Of course,” Julia replied. “I had intended to send my regrets this year. It is, without a doubt, the most tiresome event on the calendar. But under the circumstances, I will attend, and you will accompany me as my guest.”
Paris exhaled slowly. “President Bacco won’t want to talk to me.”
“But would she dare publicly refuse a small request of the widow of one of Starfleet’s most decorated officers?” Julia asked. “I think not.”
Paris
smiled wistfully at his mother. “You don’t have to do this, Mom.”
“Of course, I do,” she corrected him. “You are my son and what I’ve seen over the last several days has more than convinced me that your love of Starfleet, the Federation, and her highest ideals is stronger than I or your father ever suspected. You are right. Seven is right. Admiral Akaar and President Bacco need to know that. They are the only ones who can intercede now.”
“Even if you are able to speak with President Bacco and Admiral Akaar,” Seven said, “you will have no proof to offer them.”
“Actually,” Paris replied, “if we time this right, we can give them more than proof. We can give them a confession.”
“Ours?” Seven asked.
Paris shook his head. “The Commander’s.”
19
VOYAGER
The border dividing the wastes from the rest of Confederacy space was invisible. Voyager, Galen, and the Third Calvert held position in a swath of inky blackness, two light-years from the edge of the star system that contained the planet Grysyen and seven million kilometers from the nearest terminus of the six streams that intersected near that system. Surveying the darkness ahead on the viewscreen, a green Ensign Harry Kim might have assumed that journeying into the wastes would be relatively uneventful.
Lieutenant Kim knew better.
After Tirrit and Adaeze had been transported to Voyager’s brig, Admiral Janeway ordered Galen to hold position at their current coordinates. Lieutenant Lasren would provide regular progress reports to Commander Glenn until the exotic radiation and subspace ruptures ahead made communications impossible. Kim estimated that they would lose contact with Galen within the first four hours of their mission, if not sooner. In the event of an emergency, or Voyager’s and Calvert’s failure to return within the next five days, Commander Glenn had been given the harmonic resonance frequencies to the nearest stream and would utilize it to enter Grysyen’s star system and request assistance from one of the dozen CIF vessels General Mattings had stationed there to provide long-overdue aid to the planet’s inhabitants.
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